


Porthos becomes a Baron

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 10:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12130437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: How Porthos becomes a Baron. It's on the tin





	Porthos becomes a Baron

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS I haven't read this in months and can't remember but there's no non/con, no major character death. Porbably ppl get hurt in war and ppl are probably sad 
> 
> (I know, useful. I am lazy and tired and can't be arsed to read it it's LONG. It's good too, I wrote awesomely and am humorous.)

Aramis is sat in the gardens, watching Louis run around the maze, Anne on the other side of the maze also watching. It’s very sunny and hot and Aramis is dressed for court and he feels saturated with sun, heat rolling off him. His clothing is too thick. He’s only out for a little while then he’s got to go back inside, to meet with some general or other who he’s been told is very important. Key, in fact. Aramis drinks his son in, observing each movement, each moment, each aspect as long as he can, storing it all up. Then he gets to his feet and stretches. It catches Anne’s attention and she notices him and starts to come around, he waves her off and indicates the door, the guard, Aramis’s assistant coming out looking busy and cross. Anne laughs and shoos him away. 

 

“Minister,” Bazin says, acerbic. 

 

“Yes, yes, coming,” Aramis says, falling into step as Bazin heads back in. 

 

“I was promised the church, you know, monsieur,” Bazin says. “I’m a very religious man. You told me you were going to join the church when I met you and you’d send for me when you did. You sent, I came.”

 

Bazin gestures around at the palace, and gives Aramis a significant look. Aramis ignores it; he’s used to Bazin’s grumbling. He feels no guilt at all at having slightly mislead him. He’s a very efficient assistant and he has oodles of fun with organising and paperwork and bureaucracy. He also gets to grump at Aramis and to make pointed comments when Aramis isn’t being religious enough about policies. 

 

“Who am I meeting? Surely I should be told a name at least, if I’m to be persuading him of whatever I’m persuading him of,” Aramis says. 

 

“You’re not persuading him, he wants the chance to persuade you. And since he is not only a veteran of the recent siege but also the man who broke it, we have little choice but to hear him. We are not storming a Spanish stronghold, monsieur, just remember that. Let him talk, and tell him no. Easy,” Bazin says. 

 

“Easy,” Aramis repeats, nodding. “Right. In here?”

 

Bazin has come to a stop in front of a door, one of the smaller reception rooms. Bazin nods and Aramis claps his hands and grins before stepping in. Listen, and say no. Easy. 

 

“Hullo,” the general says.

 

He’s silhouetted against the window, only a vague shape in the dim room - the sunshine hasn’t quite pierced, here, the window too small, the curtains too heavy. Doesn’t matter, though. Aramis would know  _ this _ man anywhere. Not so easy, afterall. Aramis turns and walks back out, clips Bazin around the ear, and then walks back in. 

 

“Did you just hit your friend?” The general asks. 

 

“No. I hit my blasted servant because he failed to mention who it is I am supposed to be meeting right now!” Aramis says, ending in a joyful yell of “Porthos!”

 

He opens his arms, and Porthos - General Porthos du Vallon - laughs warmly and turns, walking into his embrace with not a single sign of reluctance. Aramis wraps his arms around Porthos’s big, familiar shoulders and thanks his God and every saint and all the grace in the world for Porthos’s safety and health. 

 

“You didn’t write,” Aramis accuses. 

 

“I did,” Porthos says, voice bright with amusement and affront. So alive. “Just not to you. Didn’t get around to it, I had to write so many reports and letters. You know what I’m like. Thought I’d just show up.”

 

“You were under siege, I thought perhaps you’d gone on to where I cannot follow,” Aramis says. He decides that he isn’t happy about that and gives Porthos a gentle clip around the ear. 

 

“Ow,” Porthos complains, wriggling out of Aramis’s arms to put his hands on his hips and glower. “I hurt that ear. I’m injured.”

 

“Hardly. If you were, you’d not complain. What are you doing here? Why did I not hear of your alive-ness?” Aramis asks, walking around Porthos to examine him, tugging him into the light. 

 

His left ear is red and swollen, and where the ring used to hang is torn and stitched and scarring. Aramis touches his fingers to it, eyes filling with tears. Porthos turns again and gets a face full of light, from the small window, the sun setting far enough to stream suddenly in. Aramis cups Porthos’s cheek and lets the tears fall. 

 

“You really thought me dead?” Porthos asks, surprised. 

 

“No. I’d have heard. But I didn’t hear from you, so I avoided news of the siege, and just waited. And prayed,” Aramis says .

 

“Lots of prayers,” Porthos says. “Ah, sorry. Should’ve written.”

 

“No, Porthos, I  _ do _ know you. I know you don’t like to hear it but I also know you learnt to write late and that it isn’t always easy. I’m happy to see you, my friend,” Aramis says. “So happy.”

 

“Glad to hear it. You’re here to listen and say no, right?” Porthos says. Then grins. “Knew I were right to tell that man of yours I didn’t know you a bit, except from long ago when I’d took you on a sinful rout about Paris. Said you wouldn’t remember. Knew he’d keep it himself, wouldn’t want to remind you, like. Keep you straight and true.”

 

“Sneaky,” Aramis says, sniffing, taking a shaking breath, touching Porthos’s ear again. 

 

“Ow.”

 

“What did you do to this?”

 

“Spanish fucker got a knife through the hoop, pulled it off,” Porthos says. “I got his knife and put it between his ribs, ring and all. Buried with bits of my ear in him. I thought that fine.”

 

“What am I listening to? Some eloquent plea for something I cannot give you?”

 

“We need better supplies. I want you to change your resupply strategy and make it more frequent. Better food makes better soldiers,” Porthos says. 

 

“You have a better strategy? Will it cost more?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Yep. And yep,” Porthos says. 

 

“Later, then,” Aramis decides. “We’ll talk about it later. Come somewhere lighter, I want to see you. Let me see you?”

 

He hasn’t seen Porthos in so long. It’s been nearly two years since Porthos was last in Paris and then it was brief. Porthos nods and follows Aramis through the palace. It’s quiet, the king and queen still outside, courtiers and servants with them. In here it’s cool and peaceful. Bazin trots along behind them until Aramis reaches the landing to his private quarters and turns on him. 

 

“Yes, Bazin?” Aramis asks. 

 

Bazin gives him a long reproachful look and then spins about and clatters away. Porthos grins and follows Aramis into his rooms. Up here it’s light, and Aramis has the curtains and windows open. He has Porthos stand in the middle of the room and takes him in. He’s in his armour and it’s covered in new scars - sword marks, damage, dents, repairs, stitching. Aramis wonders if Porthos’s body underneath is also like this. He runs a hand over Porthos’s neck, as if to tell, and Porthos beams at him and lunges forwards to kiss him, hands coming up to knit behind his head and tug him closer. It hadn’t been Aramis’s intent at all but he’s not against it. Not in the slightest. He leans into it and hums, resting against Porthos’s chest, hand on his broad shoulder. Broader than two years ago. He’s always bigger, every time Aramis sees him. 

 

“One day you’ll come back and be so big you won’t fit inside anymore,” Aramis murmurs. 

 

“Calling me fat?” Porthos asks. 

 

Aramis considers it and steps back, out of Porthos’s grip. He undoes the buckles holding Porthos, lifting armour away; taking Porthos’s gauntlets and vambraces, his gloves, his pauldron, breastplate, all the leather and metal falling noisily to the floor, coming away with ease, like shedding a skin. Aramis rushes, fumbling belts and buckles and weaponry until it’s strewn about them and Porthos is down to his shirt and padding. Aramis slows, but takes the padding too. Finally he can get a good look. 

 

“No,” he says, sadly. “I am not calling you fat. Oh, Porthos.”

 

“Can’t get fat off army supplies,” Porthos says. Then he grins and tugs of his shirt with enthusiasm. “Look, you can see me ribs.”

 

“I’m not saying no,” Aramis says, quietly. “Stop. I won’t say no. You can stop this.”

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Porthos says, face falling. “Just a little nudge.”

 

“You’ve made your point,” Aramis says. 

 

He steps into Porthos’s space again, running his hands over Porthos’s thin body. Lithe and muscular, all the fat turned to strength and metal, like he’s armour all the way down to the bone. There are scars here, too. Some red and new, some old and pale. There’s a dirty line of stitches down Porthos’s side. Aramis scowls at it and goes to get his kit. He still keeps it stocked, just in case. He pushes Porthos to sit on the bed and Porthos chuckles but indulges him, raising an elbow so Aramis can get to the wound. Aramis cuts the stitches carefully, one by one, and removes them. He uses his softest handkerchief and the clean water left for him to drink and gently washes the wound. It’s not too long, but it’s fairly deep. 

 

“Does it hurt?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Nah,” Porthos says. “Eh, probably. Who can tell, anymore?”

 

Aramis sits and puts his own stitches in, neat and tidy, clean. He puts them in each very carefully, and presses a kiss over each, and the energy and jitters slowly eek out of Porthos as the stitches climb. He slumps, as Aramis wraps a bandage around his middle. 

 

“Anymore of these?” Aramis whispers. 

 

“No,” Porthos says. “Just bruises, for the rest. And my ear. Can’t get a new earring in there, tore out all the skin.”

 

“Other ear,” Aramis says, touching Porthos’s good ear. “We’ll put something rich, here. Diamonds, maybe.”

 

“Ok,” Porthos says, perking up. “I’m getting my supplies?”

 

“Give me a strategy, I’ll get you your supplies. Bazin will be angry.”

 

“Send him to church for a bit, go yourself, you’ll appease him.”

 

“Are you here just to manipulate things out of me, or do you have other duties?” Aramis asks.

 

“Probably other duties. I’m here for a while, though,” Porthos says, and he looks sad again. “Brujon was hurt, ‘mis. I’ve brought him home.”

 

“Mm?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Lost an arm,” Porthos whispers. “d’Artagnan will see him right but I promised I’d stay for a bit, help him. I want to help him. All of them.”

 

“That’s something I may actually be able to do something about,” Aramis murmurs, stroking Porthos’s cheek. “My dear man, there’s so much kindness and care in you.”

 

“Right. Only, I never cared enough before.”

 

“d’Artagnan came to me, two months after you left for the front that first time, six years ago,” Aramis whispers, smiling, caressing Porthos’s neck and shoulder and kissing him. “He told me we had no choice. We had better get started seeing to the refugees and soldiers of the city. The displaced people who needed our care. Otherwise, our dear captain informed me, one general du Vallon of the Court of Miracles would return to Paris with a mutinous army and sweep through the streets with fire and brimstone like an avenging angel.”

 

“Poetic,” Porthos says, smiling, closing his eyes. “Never said that. I just made a gentle suggestion.”

 

“Indeed,” Aramis says. “We’re working on it, I promise you. It takes time to set up such things.”

 

“Aramis. I’m tired,” Porthos says, opening his eyes. 

 

He gives Aramis a helpless look, so Aramis tumbles them into the bed they’re sat on and wraps him tight in a hug, pulling him close, kissing his shoulder and chest and arm and cheek and every bit of skin he can reach. 

 

“You need a shave. And a haircut,” Aramis says, tangling his hand in Porthos’s long hair, digging into his scalp to give a fond rub. “This is long.”

 

He finds the hair-tie, holding it all back in a ponytail, and undoes it. He laughs as all the curls spring out of the clasp of the tie, all round Porthos’s face and shoulders. 

 

“This is wonderful,” Aramis says, kissing Porthos again, getting his lips this time, his mouth against Aramis’s warm and familiar and eager. 

 

Porthos rolls them so he’s not lying on his new stitches, and sets about kissing, holding Aramis’s head again. He relaxes against Aramis and the kisses slow, breaths deepening. There’s a pause, and Aramis takes a deep, happy breath. And another. And another. He pulls back, to see what Porthos is doing. Porthos lets out a rumbling snore, face slack, eyes shut. Aramis laughs and presses a kiss fervently to Porthos’s brow. He gets up long enough to change from his court clothes to something light and appropriate to rest in, then he stretches out beside Porthos, settling in to watch and wait. 

 

Chapter 2

 

Aramis is sitting in his son’s chambers, at a very small table, toy soldiers spread around in front of him. Louis is lying on the sofa under the window with a book, he’s cross with Aramis because Aramis won’t crawl around and be his horse, he called Aramis his servant and made demands. Aramis isn’t sure if he feels more or less like a parent, being the focus of this antagonism. He’s hiding up here, from Bazin, as well. Anne comes in and laughs at him and points to the door, just then. Aramis pretends innocence. 

 

“Bazin needs you,  _ minister _ ,” Anne says, laughter still in her voice. 

 

“Yes, Aramis, you should leave,” Louis says, looking stubbornly only at the pages before his eyes. Anne raises her eyebrows. 

 

“I am no horse,” Aramis says, sighing and getting to his feet to stretch, taking a leg for Anne, only gently mocking. “Your majesty.”

 

“You bow beautifully, minister,” Anne says, with a little heat. 

 

Aramis smiles and saunters from the room, casting a glance back at her. He can hear her laughing at him as he hurries down the stairs, overlaid with Louis’ high complaining tones. He’s still smiling, pleased with his little family, when he bumps into Bazin and nearly sends him down a staircase. Aramis catches and rights him and pats his shoulder. 

 

“The queen says you are looking for me,” Aramis says. Bazin scowls, arms crossed. 

 

“You are supposed to be in a meeting, with the generals, to decide strategy,” Bazin says, punctuating this with three sharp prods, propelling Aramis in the correct direction. 

 

“Ah yes, I had quite forgot,” Aramis says, completely ingenuine.

 

He’s already dressed for the occasion, Bazin makes sure that the day’s necessary clothing is laid out in the morning, to avoid incidents like in the early days when Aramis turned up at court in his old Musketeer leathers. Quite inappropriate, apparently. He’d been sparring with Athos, and Athos had also been in leather and  _ he _ hadn’t been reprimanded. He’d been entirely smug about it. Aramis steps into the room with the long table and four high-powered, important generals of France look at him. He doesn't really have eyes for them, though, just for lieutenant Pepin, cousin to the famous Pierre Pepin who died in service of France and the musketeers (who Porthos suspects is actually Pierre’s daughter; Porthos has been a big part of this particular soldier's rise to fame). For Captain Jean Bertrand (Jeanne, perhaps, Porthos has whispered in Aramis’s ear at times and Aramis has put him forward for promotions. Athos’s old land was turned to the growing of food long ago and targeted by the Spanish early in the war). And Luc. Aramis beams at him. A few more years and he’ll get the promotion and then it won’t be long before he's captain, general. Aramis is so very proud of that and of him, even though he did everything in his power to dissuade Luc from joining up. Aramis is distracted by Luc. 

 

“Hullo,” Porthos says, amused at going unnoticed. 

 

_ He’s  _ not supposed to be there. Aramis turns and flings himself into Porthos’s arms, laughing. Porthos, as luck would have it, had got to his feet in order to catch Aramis before Aramis even thought to leap, so all is well and Aramis can rain kisses onto his face, holding his head, beaming. 

 

“Porthos!” Aramis breathes. “What are you doing here?”

 

“General Laurier…” Porthos pauses, wincing. 

 

“General fucking Laurier fucked up,” Pepin says. “Porthos pulled him and his men out of the fire and saved lots of lives, including the cousin of the Queen. She will hear soon enough, when the messengers arrive, and Porthos will get another medal.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says, beaming harder, so hard his face hurts. 

 

“Shall we continue?” Porthos asks. “Now that our wayward minister has been pried away from his Most Important Duties and can join us?”

 

Aramis can hear the sarcasm, and judging by the gentle laughter around everyone else can too. He sits with as much dignity he can muster, but he can’t stop grinning at Luc and Porthos. The other two as well, but mostly Luc and Porthos. He hardly listens to what’s going on around him, luckily Porthos does listen and clears his throat loudly whenever Aramis needs to pay attention. Bertrand has several coughing fits that Aramis suspects of being laughter but he can prove nothing. It’s just an adjustment of their strategy, small enough that Aramis can pretty much just rubber stamp things, big enough that he needs to be there. This is the third meeting he’s had about this and he is bored of it. He enjoys Luc and Porthos though, and enjoys the spirited way all of the men talk about their men and what they need, what is possible and what isn’t. 

 

When the meeting is finally over Pepin and Porthos stick around, waiting on Aramis who has to check in with Bazin and sign some documents, give a couple of orders. When he’s done he looks them over, wondering what they want from him. Porthos mutters Brujon’s name and Aramis smiles. Brujon’s done really well over the past year. The first year he struggled a lot, but he’s been making huge progress recently. Aramis takes them to the Christophe’s inn. The Musketeers use it as a central point of distribution for the help they offer the soldiers when they come home. The soldiers congregate there anyway, so it’s a good place to start. Brujon is behind the bar today, as Aramis expected. The palace guards, used to such expeditions, make themself comfortable in a corner and are brought plates and mugs by Brujon before he comes to the counter again to talk to Aramis. He embraces Porthos with one arm and bites his lip when he sees Pepin. Porthos waves a hand and Pepin leans over the counter to give Brujon a quick kiss, just a brush of the lips. Brujon flushes and smiles. 

 

“You’re doing good,” Porthos says, when Pepin is back on his own side. 

 

“I am,” Brujon says. “Much better, thanks to Aramis and the captain. We’re doing good here and that’s important to me, I feel useful.”

 

“And you are in love,” Porthos says, gravely. 

 

“You really are a terror,” Pepin mutters, making himself at home in a chair near by. “Sit with me when these guys are gone, Bruj.”

 

“Yeah,” Brujon says. “I would marry him, if it were permissible.”

 

“He doesn’t want…?” Aramis asks. 

 

“No,” Brujon says. “ _ He _ doesn’t.”

 

Aramis nods. They stay long enough for Porthos to get all the news and updates out of Brujon and get a good look at how well he is, then they head back to the Louvre. They sit in the gardens with wine and watch the world around them. Porthos tells Aramis a few quite stories, shows him a new scar on his arm, tells him about one on his thigh. His hair is longer still, now, and plaited in a thick braid down his back, the way he used to do his bandana. Aramis admires it and offers to give Porthos a haircut in the same breath. 

 

“I’ll get it done before I go back,” Porthos says. “Shave it off, this time. It’ll be long when you see me again, though.”

 

“I like it,” Aramis says. “Just don’t want anyone grabbing it and slicing your head off.”

 

Porthos bellows out a laugh and shakes his head. True enough that he’s fought with a braid like that most of his life, in fabric if not hair, and Aramis is not being logical, but it is a consideration. Porthos offers to spar but Aramis would rather be lazy, for now, so instead they ride out of Paris and lie in a field, eating peaches from the kitchens, and Aramis tells Porthos of Louis. 

 

Porthos isn’t in Paris for long this time, not supposed, really, to be here at all if it wasn’t for Laurier. Aramis monopolises his time, Elodie and Marie have long since withdrawn from Paris life and live in the countryside with Athos and Sylvie now. Porthos visits the garrison and checks in on his injured or disabled soldiers, but he allows Aramis his monopoly. The queen receives her correspondence from the front the day before Porthos is due to ride out again and she does indeed honour Porthos. 

 

Aramis helps him dress, finding him clothing among Aramis’s things that has been left here one time or another, things that are acceptable for court. He straps on Porthos’s pauldron too, and minimal armour. It is a soldier’s honour that the queen is giving. Aramis checks with Brujon that uniform is acceptable and Brujon agrees. Porthos doesn’t mind. His hair is shaved so he wears a bandana around his head that he removes for his presentation. Aramis stands in the crowd and watches as another medal is pinned to Porthos’s broad chest. Broader now than ever. 

 

Broader, and Porthos is not so thin this time. He has been to see Athos recently, Aramis would know this even if both Athos and Porthos had not written to him of the visit, Athos in a long missive, Porthos in a few words. He is well-fed and healthy, the half-starved metal of him softer now. He is still too thin but his ribs are less visible. Aramis has spent days with Porthos in nothing but his skin, checking every new scar and mark on him, checking his breadth and width and height, measuring every inch of him and cataloging it with the rest. He is careful of Porthos now, sometimes, where before he wasn’t; Porthos is alone out there now, no Athos or d’Artagnan to watch his back. No Aramis. No one but his own self. Aramis trusts Porthos, trusts his wits, his strength, his intelligence, but he is a soldier and it is not hard to lose him. 

Chapter 3

 

“It’s Porthos, isn’t it?” Aramis asks, when Bazin comes to him with That Look.

 

Bazin has That Look when Aramis is avoiding duty, but there’s an edge to it today; Bazin does not approve of Porthos, has never quite let go of the rout of Paris in their early days even though it was an invention of Porthos’s. Aramis pauses. On second thought, not much of an invention perhaps. Aramis isn’t even really avoiding much, today. Today most of the duties fall to the queen and the Louvre is quiet, no one much around, leaving Aramis mostly free. He would have liked to go with the king and queen but no, that isn’t the duty of the minister, that would only be the duty of consort or father. Aramis looks back out of the window he’s sitting on the ledge of, forgetting Bazin, gazing out at the gardens again. 

 

“Minister, General Porthos du Vallon is here to see you,” Bazin says. Then, irritated; “He has no appointment and there is nothing that he needs France’s first minister for, he’s only in Paris to receive a promotion.”

 

“Promotion?” Aramis asks, idly, still only half paying attention, thinking about his son. The King of France. Days like today it really feels like it. He’s growing up, too, nearly eleven now. 

 

“Hullo,” Porthos says, clearly growing tired of waiting for Bazin to fetch Aramis and coming himself. 

 

Aramis holds out an arm, resting his head on the window casement, and Porthos comes to lean into him and press a kiss to his hair. Bazin makes a disgruntled noise but Porthos sends him wordlessly away and he clatters loudly and pointedly on the stairs as he goes. Porthos chuckles and kisses Aramis’s cheek, the one not squashed at the window. 

 

“Good to see you,” Aramis murmurs. 

 

“Mm, clearly,” Porthos says, settling his hip against the ledge and leaning the arm not holding Aramis on the casement, his head pushing forward into Aramis’s line of sight, looking out too. “I suppose there is a certain fascination in watching poor Madam dubois in the rain.”

 

“Mm?” Aramis focuses and sees one of the younger kitchen servants in the herb garden by the kitchens. He smiles. He has a soft spot for her, she gives Louis sweet things. “I made a mistake, Porthos. With Louis, with Anne. With my son.”

 

“Shush,” Porthos says, giving Aramis a pinch, pressing his face to the glass. 

 

“You’re wet,” Aramis complains, pushing Porthos off him. 

 

Porthos steps back and Aramis sighs and actually looks at him. It’s been just over a year. Porthos isn’t in uniform this time, he’s wearing a doublet of much richer stuff than he usually would and very well made trousers, stockings, shoes with heels and buckles. His hair’s shorn off. Aramis blinks. 

 

“What?” Porthos asks, shifting uncomfortably and tugging at his doublet.

 

“Nothing,” Aramis says. “Haven’t seen you in court clothes before, that’s all. It suits you.”

 

Porthos just grunts and leans into Aramis again, looking out the window. He’s not actually very wet, his skin’s just slightly damp. He must’ve come in and straight to Aramis, from a carriage to the louvre, just getting an edge of the rain. Aramis touches his cheek and assures him again he looks good. Porthos shrugs. 

 

“It’s fine,” Porthos decides, straightening his shoulders. 

 

“These are no broader, this time,” Aramis says, rubbing over them. He nudges Porthos away again to take a look, resting a hand on Porthos’s stomach. “Hmm. Still not fat, but getting there.”

 

“Get off,” Porthos says, shoving him. 

 

Aramis laughs and gets to his feet, giving Porthos a proper embrace, throwing off some of his gloomy mood. Porthos yawns noisily in Aramis’s ear and nuzzles into his shoulder. 

 

“You need a nap?” Aramis asks, laughing a bit. 

 

“Dear God, I need so much sleep,” Porthos mutters. 

 

“Tut to the swearing,” Aramis chides, but gently and not very seriously. “Seriously, if you want a nap, the king and queen are away, there’s nothing to do around here today. Oh! You got promoted?”

 

“Yes. Général de corps d'armée,” Porthos says. “I’ve been commanding Laurier’s corps for a while, so it’s mostly just a name, the job’ll be the same.”

 

“Better pay.”

 

“Better pay. And one more stop to the top.”

 

“Nap.”

 

“Yes. Please. Her majesty wanted a ceremony this time,” Porthos says. “The last just came to the front where I was. Ah, I don’t think I ever wrote about that one.”

 

“Anne told me,” Aramis says, then bites his lip wincing. “Her majesty.”

 

Porthos shrugs, grouchy for a moment. He knows what it means when Aramis slips up on ‘Anne’ - intimacy. Even now, with the old king dead and Aramis comfortably in place at the palace and in the public’s good thoughts, Porthos doesn’t like the secret tryst with Anne. He calls it dangerous, when they talk about it at all, to which Aramis comes back with a reminder that Porthos spends twenty three out of twenty four months on a war front. Aramis starts to lead Porthos up to his rooms, but Porthos resists with a grunt, planting his feet. This is another aspect of Anne; Porthos wants to go ‘somewhere else’. Aramis sighs. He does have rooms outside the Louvre, though, so he calls a page and gets his coach brought to the front steps. They run, laughing, and get damp. Aramis’s guard sit on the back of the coach and get wetter. Porthos guides the coach driver to his house, instead of Aramis’s rooms, and has the coach and horses put up and the driver and Aramis’s guard in the kitchen where a fire’s lit and there’s food. Porthos hangs around long enough to make sure they’re looked after by his servants, then tugs Aramis upstairs. 

 

“Is this your and Elodie’s bed?” Aramis asks. Porthos snorts. “What? Is that not why we’re here? Being jealous about shared beds?”

 

“Sleep with who you like, Aramis, but do not judge me for thinking twice about the affair that has nearly gotten me killed on more than one occasion, lost me my partner and best friend for four years to a monastery, and makes me a traitor to my country every day because of the secrets I keep for you,” Porthos snaps, not joining Aramis on the bed, going to the window instead, tugging the doublet off sharply, unlacing it with jerks. 

 

So there is still that sore spot, with Porthos. It’s been six years and he still hasn’t let it go. Aramis sighs and leans back, putting his arms behind his head. He gave up arguing this one a long time ago. He sits up. Perhaps not. 

 

“I can’t help who I love,” Aramis says. “If I could I would hardly love you, would I?”

 

Porthos freezes and then turns very slowly to look at Aramis as if he’s never seen him before, face cold and closed off with hurt. 

 

“Charming,” is all Porthos says, before turning away again, gripping the windowsill. 

 

“That is not what I meant and you know it. You are the person I love more than anyone, and I cannot marry you or start a family with you, you know this, we’ve talked about this. Why do you make this hard? Why can’t you just come home, and be happy, with me, just enjoy what we have?”

 

Porthos shrugs, leaning on his fists on the windowsill. Aramis goes to him, wrapping around him from behind, pressing his face into Porthos’s shoulder, his soft shirt, the skin at his neck. Porthos sighs deeply, right from his stomach. Aramis draws off his shirt to examine his body, find the new scars with his fingers, eyeing his new muscle, the loosening of the steel in him. Aramis breathes a little easier, Porthos is no longer wire thin. That can only be a good thing. 

 

“You look good,” Aramis says. 

 

“I’ve been on easy duty for the last few weeks,” Porthos says. “Took a hard knock to the head, got sent a few miles back from the front.”

 

Aramis runs his fingers over Porthos’s shoulders, up into his hair, over his head. Looking for breaks or lumps or damage. There isn’t anything he can find, Porthos leaves him to it, resting his head on Aramis’s shoulder, hands working at the stays and ties of his clothing. They tangle, naked, on the bed, when they’re undressed, Porthos weary and sad. Aramis gives him a back rub and presses assurances into his skin with kisses. Sometimes it worries him, these quietnesses in Porthos.

 

“I worry about you,” Porthos says, taking the words Aramis is thinking. 

 

“Yes, and I you,” Aramis reminds him. 

 

“Had a bit of a fever, couple of old dreams,” Porthos says. 

 

He falls asleep after a while, and Aramis wraps around him and dozes for a bit too. He gets up after a while and finds his bible and a book, reading on his back, Porthos curled up snoring on top of him. Porthos dozes the afternoon away and the evening, waking to eat then sleeping through the night. Aramis is surprised but doesn’t mention it when they wake together in the morning. Porthos winks at him and seems more cheerful, washing and shaving completely naked and unashamed before him. Aramis watches, lying on the bed. 

 

“Get up, lazy guts,” Porthos says, poking him. “You coming to court to watch them pin something else on me?”

 

“That used to mean something very different,” Aramis murmurs, holding Porthos’s hand, still sleepy. 

 

“Yeah, I’m very respectable now and no one pins anything on me. Except medals and promotions. Up,” Porthos says. “I can’t be late for my own fucking thing.”

 

Aramis gets up and dresses himself, and then redresses himself, and redresses himself. Why Porthos has quite so many of his clothes here Aramis isn’t sure. Aramis has brought them here over the years, some of them are really old. He settles eventually and does his hair, a little scent. Porthos laughs boisterously at him and goes to get the horses. There isn’t rain today and Porthos insists on riding. Aramis shrugs at his coachmen and guards; the coach follows them back to the palace, Porthos’s laughter ringing out. 

 

d’Artagnan comes to watch, and Constance. Porthos embraces them both and the four of them catch up. Aramis sees both d’Artagnans at least once a week but it’s still joyful to all be together like this. He misses Athos, hopefully he’ll be in Paris soon. Porthos stands with an arm around d’Artagnan until he’s called up by the queen, bored, Aramis can tell. Aramis has duties so he’s not standing with Porthos, he’s just watching and paying as little attention to what he’s doing as possible. When Porthos kneels before the queen Aramis feels a thrill of pride, but when Porthos stands up and Anne takes his hand his chest almost bursts with it. Porthos winks at him again and smiles warmly. 

  
  


Chapter 4

 

Porthos writes to Aramis. This isn’t an unheard of occurrence, but it isn’t often in the past ten years that Porthos has done so. Usually he relies on d’Artagnan and Aramis getting news from the official reports and whatever Marie-Cessette passes on to Elodie passes on to Athos passes on to them. It’s not a long letter, nor is it particularly elucidating. It just says that Alice Clerbeaux has written to tell Porthos that her father, the Baron de Bracieux, has died and that Porthos is coming to Paris. Usually Porthos just turns up and Aramis can’t work out why he’s getting informed early this time, or what the death of the Baron has to do with anything. He has heard about the death, the Baron’s lands and title reverted to the crown on his death and Anne has been considering people who she might bestow the title on. The last Aramis heard she was going to give both land and title to Alice. Whatever the reason, Aramis dresses in old clothing and slips his guard, going to sit at the gate to wait for Porthos, on the day he’s due. 

 

“Hullo,” Porthos says, when he rides through, spotting Aramis at once and reigning in, looking down at Aramis from under his hat, cloak travel-stained, face a little weary but bright with pleasure at being met. Aramis smiles up at him and wriggles his eyebrows to make Porthos laugh, which he does before swinging down with all of his old grace, embracing Aramis, pulling him up into Porthos’s arms. “Good to see you.”

 

“You too. You smell like rain.”

 

“It rained. On me.”

 

“Weather is indiscriminate.”

 

Porthos laughs again and shoves Aramis gently towards his horse, so Aramis mounts, Porthos getting up into his own saddle, and they ride side by side to the palace. Porthos sends his men to the garrison and they ride the last stretch alone, like old times. They’re much older now, than those early days, and they ride slow and easy, the quiet between them companionable. Aramis has nothing to say and Porthos seems not to either, so they arrive in the same silence, giving their horses to the stable boys who meet them. Bazin is waiting, arms crossed, ready to scold Aramis. They breeze past him though and up to Aramis’s chambers. Porthos shrugs off his coat and waits. Aramis goes to him and starts undoing the buckles and ties of his armour, lifting the heavy metal and leather away piece by piece. Porthos rolls his shoulders in relief when he’s down to his underthings, sinking with a groan into the chaise. 

 

“That was a long ride,” Porthos complains. “I was summoned at short notice.”

 

“Yes, you wrote, I don’t understand why you’re here?” Aramis says, sitting beside his friend and scrutinizing the shape of him. He’s a little wiry again, too thin again. He must have been on the front, this time. 

 

“Haven’t you been told?” Porthos says. “I did write.”

 

“About Alice’s father? Are you here for the funeral, is she returning to Paris? I know the two of you have written periodically, even after deciding not to marry.”

 

“I  _ wrote _ ,” Porthos says again, cross and frustrated. “I’m being given a barony, I’m gonna be a baron.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says, sitting up, eyes wide. “Oh? Oh!” 

 

“Oh oh oh,” Porthos grouches. “Are you having la petite mort?”

 

“Don’t be obscene,” Aramis says. “I am dying of shock, not pleasure.”

 

“You are not pleased?” Porthos asks. 

 

“I am pleased,” Aramis says, confused. 

 

“Then you are indeed dying of pleasure,” Porthos says smugly. 

 

“I thought her majesty was giving the land to Alice?”

 

“Yeah she tried, Alice told her to bugger off and leave her in peace. She had enough of court and riches with her husband, she lives quite comfortably with- never mind. She likes teaching, she has a good life in the country,” Porthos says. 

 

“So you’re getting it.”

 

“Second choice,” Porthos says, nodding. 

 

“I don’t think so,” Aramis says, thoughtful. “Anne’s been making noises about giving you a title for a while. She just likes to reward women, and Alice Clerbeaux was entitled to that land.”

 

“Doesn’t like to reward women when they don’t get in line,” Porthos says. Then he shrugs and stretches out, smiling. “A baron. General of the French Army, Porthos du Vallon Baron de Bracieux, of the court of miracles. You think they’ll let me put that last bit on?”

 

“You haven’t got the title the right way around it should be-”

 

“Don’t care,” Porthos says. “It’s warm in here, you’ve got a fire. Take my clothes?”

 

Aramis does so, running his hands over Porthos’s naked body, exploring new scar tissue, new red marks, a wound in Porthos’s shoulder that looks like it festered and is still healing. He tries not to grind his teeth. Porthos smiles under Aramis’s fuss and scrutiny, enjoying it. 

 

“Will you take it? The land?” Aramis asks, low, ignoring Porthos’s hedonistic shivering. 

 

“‘Course,” Porthos says. 

 

“And the implicit retirement” 

 

“‘Course not,” Porthos says, equally light. “I’m a soldier.”

 

“Yeah, till you’re dead,” Aramis says, pressing his fingers to Porthos’s shoulder. Porthos sits up and bats him away, walking over to the window, unashamed and uncaring of who might look up and see him standing there, naked, bold as anything. Aramis smiles. “I’m fond of you. I would like to see you reach old age, my friend. You daughter might enjoy growing up with you, more than letters and gifts.”

 

“That is a low blow,” Porthos says. “I see her.”

 

“Rarely.”

 

“Enough.”

 

“Enough for her? I know she’s got Athos,” Aramis had meant to say Athos and Sylvie, Elodie, plenty of love, but Porthos turns, face stark and drawn, and Aramis stops. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that however you took it.”

 

“You meant it well enough,” Porthos says, not meeting Aramis’s eyes. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I promised to take care of them, give them a good live. I’ve done that. Better than I ever had, plenty of love, plenty of things, education.”

 

“Yes,” Aramis says, gently, getting up and going to hold Porthos’s face, stilling his wandering eyes, meeting them, seeing the shame and fear there. “They love you, they want you home, I promise.”

 

“I dislike you,” Porthos says, grumpiness taking over the raw emotion, “when you try to read my mind.”

 

“Did I get it wrong?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Yeah, actually. I know they want me home, I don’t kid myself it’ll be easy though, or that she knows me better than she knows Athos, or that Athos hasn’t all but raised her along with his own, as his own. I asked that of him and he did as I asked. She deserved a family and I was serving France,” Porthos says. “I’m not ashamed. I wanted to win the war, make the world safe for her. I haven’t done that but I kept your men safe for their families, brought Brujon home, pushed for good food and better resources, made Paris a good place for men who had done with fighting, helped the refugees, won myself honour and medals and rose to the top, got myself a barony.”

 

“I think you won plenty, yes,” Aramis says, smiling.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, meeting Aramis’s eyes of his own accord. “I’m weary.”

 

“A tired soldier is a dead soldier, when it’s that kind of weariness.”

 

“Oh do shut up,” Porthos says. “I rode a long way and I want to sleep.”

 

“Ah, right,” Aramis says. 

 

He leads Porthos through to the bedroom and they spread out on the bed, resting together as they always have, woven together, knitted together, tangled together. Aramis isn’t tired but he rests while Porthos sleeps, watching the rise and fall of his chest, thinking how they fit together and how much he’s missed Porthos. He wonders, sometimes, if his life at the palace is worth losing this. Perhaps if Porthos stops fighting Aramis will stop fighting, too. Stop fighting for the Dauphin to be his, stop fighting the inevitable pull and tug that is drawing the king of France ever further from his childhood with Aramis, into the intricacies of court and tutors and school, riding and sparring with boys his own age, toward his duties away from the Louvre, toward politics and renown. He spends a lot of his time at the hunting lodge in Versaille, now, with Henry. 

 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers. 

 

“Hmm? ‘m’wake,” Porthos murmurs, turning his head a little in the cushions, fingers scritching at Aramis’s chest. 

 

“Agnes came to court, a year ago,” Aramis whispers. “Anne wrote to her, I don’t know how Anne found out… she brought Henry. He’s friend to the next king of France, now.”

 

“Wonderful,” Porthos mutters, shifting so his arm’s heavy over Aramis’s stomach, face pressed into the cushions. A moment later he’s snoring. 

 

Aramis smiles; Porthos is no less genuine for his sleepiness, he’s really pleased for Henry and Agnes. Aramis remembers him, after they tricked Agnes and left her, back with Athos and the baby, little Henry tucked secret and safe in Porthos’s cloak, in his strong arms. The look on his face as he looked down at Henry. For Porthos, like Aramis, it was a tiny glimpse of a different sort of family, of family that was hidden and quiet and no less loving for it. The kind of family that Porthos might live happily in, one day. 

 

“I am thankful you found that with Elodie,” Aramis whispers, kissing Porthos’s curls. 

 

He hopes Porthos has the courage to give up his life as a soldier. It will take all of Porthos’s courage, Aramis knows. It’s all he’s known since he was a child, since he was twelve years old. The only thing he knew that was good and joyful and gave him security, food, friends. Aramis has seen Porthos hold desperately tight to it, as a drowning man, the only thing that has been certain and true. Aramis feels a pang at that. He should have been that, for Porthos. He hasn’t been. Athos was too drunk and heartbroken at first and Aramis had tried to be, had been. But there was Anne, and the Dauphin. Aramis is still not sure he can give it up, give them up. Not even for Porthos. That would take all of  _ his  _ courage. 

 

All of his love. 

 

*

_ you being in love _

_ will tell who softly asks in love, _

 

_ am i separated from your body smile brain hands merely _

_ to become the jumping puppets of a dream? oh i mean: _

_ entirely having in my careful how _

_ careful arms created this at length _

_ inexcusable, this inexplicable pleasure-you go from several _

_ persons: believe me that strangers arrive _

_ when i have kissed you into a memory _

_ slowly, oh seriously _

_ -that since and if you disappear _

 

_ solemnly _

_ myselves _

_ ask "life, the question how do i drink dream smile _

 

_ and how do i prefer this face to another and _

_ why do i weep eat sleep-what does the whole intend" _

_ they wonder. oh and they cry "to be, being, that i am alive _

_ this absurd fraction in its lowest terms _

_ with everything cancelled _

_ but shadows _

_ -what does it all come down to? love? Love _

_ if you like and i like,for the reason that i _

_ hate people and lean out of this window is love,love _

_ and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason _

_ that i do not fall into this street is love." _

 

“I don’t know how to do this,” Aramis tells Porthos. 

 

They’re sat at the garrison, on the table were they used to often sit in the yard, old men now in the moment and place they were young together. Porthos has his hand on Aramis’s shoulder as he watches recruits spar, most men who are already trained at the front or out in the city on duty. There aren’t enough anymore that the garrison buzzes with those off duty. When they are off duty they rest, they have no time or space to relax. Not while there’s a war on. Porthos thinks d’Artagnan should give the recruits more duty, pair them up with seasoned men, maybe give duties to those like Brujon. Porthos has seen Brujon fight, even with one arm he’s good enough. Better than most, even. Pepin might be frustrated with such a thing, he’s awfully protective over Brujon, Aramis knows. Porthos has grumbled about it. 

 

“He is a young man now,” Porthos says. This isn’t a continuing conversation, they had been talking of grain, but Porthos has no trouble following. “He will come and go as he pleases, no matter where you are. Do you expect him to spend much time in Paris? Even her majesty is rarely here. She leaves the running of the country to the court and her ministry.”

 

“He will take over when he…” Aramis trails off. 

 

“He will visit you,” Porthos says. “I don’t know how, either. None of us do. What did we know of this, before we came here though? And what on earth are we to have learnt, if not bravery? Skill with a sword? With weaponry and our hands, our bodies? That is useful. But Treville taught us courage above all that, and you taught the boy that, and we taught d’Artagnan that in fact captain!”

 

d’Artagnan, riding into the yard with a clatter, dismounts and throws the reigns to a stable boy before jogging over, sweaty and dusty having ridden from the gate, after news from Versaille. He looks at Porthos, obedient and keen-eyed. His hair is grey, Aramis never noticed that before. Flecked with grey. And there are lines around his eyes and mouth. He too is old, now. 

 

“Courage,” Porthos says. “Give Brujon duty. It’s time to shake things up, Charles. Give your men your trust, and let them fight for their city like we did. Me and Aramis are leaving, you’ve gotta be ready, eh?”

 

“I’m ready,” d’Artagnan says, grin bright and youthful. 

 

He is, too; a week later when Aramis calls by, Porthos returned to the front for the last time to earn his final promotion (he wants to retire as the head of the entire French army, highest rank possible), Brujon is training the recruits. Aramis smiles and settles to watch. He wonders, sometimes, thinks about Paris as a place made in ink lines, created by Porthos, one implemented strategic line of law after another. Then again, perhaps not, there’s still too much poverty and cruelty for this to be made by Porthos, and Porthos is hardly God. That would be blasphemy. Aramis goes to pray. 

 

He doesn’t want Porthos as his idol, anyway. Idolatry isn’t what he and Porthos share between them. Aramis rides out to Versaille, when he hears Porthos has once again distinguished himself and will probably be promoted. He sits with his son and Henry in the kitchen, himself in the corner while the young lord and king are busy, happy together, as boys here. Louis looks up at Aramis, suddenly, sharply perceptive and almost full-grown now. He looks like a king and Aramis bows to him, on his feet and taking a leg before he can think. Then he straightens up and touches his son’s arm, his shoulder, his cheek. They talk for a little while, openly, easily. Louis is tall and speaks well, listens well, beautiful and strong; a good king. Aramis nods approvingly.

 

Louis smiles and then waves Aramis away. Aramis goes; he has his assurance, he will still see the man he helped raise. His boy. His son. Louis will thrive here, and in Paris. He’s already thought of a man to replace Aramis as first minister, has him ready. He’s found a position for Henry. He’s a skilled orator and politician and a passionate head of state. He takes on more and more from Anne, these days, and she retreats ever further out of Aramis’s reach. Aramis says goodbye to her before he rides back to Paris and packs his rooms at the Louvre, his home for the past eleven years. Perhaps the longest he’s ever been sedentary.

 

*

Aramis is in the garden sparring with a half-hearted Bazin, who would much rather be at the church in the village and had only interrupted Aramis’s exercises in order to persuade him to go to church also. Bazin fights well and he’s younger than Aramis so he’s good to spar with, though Aramis never quite gave up training and is still a musketeer in all but name and therefore Bazin is never going to win. The competition is hardly stiff and Aramis is only paying the bout half his attention, the other on his technique and grip, playing through steps and moves and testing things he’s wanted to try against an opponent. 

 

When Anne gave Porthos a barony she did more than make him seigneur de la baronnie, she made him a noble.  All his children will, like Athos, be children of nobility - Anne made it hereditary. Men were free to take on the title of Baron if they had nobility, but Porthos had done it backwards. The title of Baron had brought him French nobility. Aramis hadn’t thought much on this, his own family are not noble and he knows no one save Athos who is, but the Bracieux’s lands had been given to Porthos along with Pierrefonds, a bigger estate more fitting to nobility. It is Pierrefonds where Aramis and Bazin are awaiting Porthos now, and the house is huge, beyond huge. It is, as Porthos has written explicitly to tell Aramis (Aramis suspects it’s a letter written out once then copied many times by a Lieutenant), bigger than Athos’s old house. Most certainly it’s bigger than his new, the small holding he and Sylvie have kept quite happily. Porthos’s suggestion that they join him and Aramis at Pierrefonds had not been met gladly, Aramis laughs to remember it and accidentally, absently, disarms Bazin. The doors open and one of the stewards stands discreetly, waiting to be called forwards. 

 

“Yes?” Aramis asks, plucking Bazin’s blade from the ground and helping the man himself up from where he tripped. 

 

“An invitation has arrived,” the steward says, holding out a scented envelope. Aramis has been getting a lot of these since he rode through town with his guard in his court clothes. He should have travelled as a soldier. He takes the note and reads it absently. “An answer is requested.”

 

Aramis nods and heads into the house, striding through the halls to the front in order that he can reply. He remembers half way there that he’s supposed to give his answer to the steward who will pass it along in some discrete and efficient manner. Too late now. Aramis clatters out the wide front doors onto the steps, in his trousers and shirt, bare-foot, a belt for his knives at his waist and his and Bazin’s blades across his shoulders. There’s no one there and Aramis turns to see Bazin looking disapproving. 

 

“I’m not going,” Aramis says, passing Bazin the note. “I am not courting anyone’s daughter.”

 

He turns to look down the long, long (long) drive that winds through Porthos’s lands and sees a cloud of dust. He settles, awaiting this next messenger with graceful forbearance and ignoring Bazin’s disapproval. He’s wearing his hair long and down, as he never did at court, and besides most people never looked further than clothing for the minister: no one will recognise him, they’ll take him for Porthos’s guard or some sort of servant. He might get a scolding but hardly cause a scene. He watches the rider draw close and a slow grin spreads over his face. 

 

No one rides like Porthos rides. 

 

He learnt late but took to it, he and his horses always have a kind of understanding. Not like d’Artagnan who can soothe and communicate with a horse easily, gentle and always a farmer. Not like Athos who is master of his mounts, always with a bearing that demands respect. Not like Aramis who rides as he does everything; with reckless abandon. Porthos and his horse both understand battle, understand life and death, and between them there rests courage and strength. Porthos rides the way he fights: in harmony. The horse gallops onto the forecourt and comes to a chaotic stop, wheeling and almost rearing at the abrupt change in speed, and then stands panting, Porthos atop also panting. 

 

“Hullo,” Porthos says, swinging himself from the saddle and leaping down as he always has. “Wow. This is my house? Ha!”

 

“This is your house, my lord Baron,” Aramis says, bowing mockingly. 

 

“You look like a gutter boy,” Porthos says, approvingly, expansively, beaming at Aramis. He turns to the horse and clicks his tongue, holding the reigns, resting a hand on her flank a moment. “Good girl, thank you for bearing me.”

 

“The stables are further around,” Aramis says. 

 

“Right,” Porthos says. “You were waiting though, so I stopped to greet you, as is polite. Politeness and manners to fit the nobility, now.”

 

“Did the head of all the French armies, baron of great swathes of land, noble and favourite of both queen and king, ride out here alone?” Aramis says. 

 

“Nah, I was just too quick. They’ll catch up,” Porthos says, cheerful and unthoughtful of the probably chaos he’s left behind him. “I brought Brujon, he’ll keep them in line.”

 

“Ah,” Aramis says. 

 

“Show me these stables, then. Are there horses in my stables? Did I buy horses? Shall I buy some, do you think? I bought a couple of peacocks in Paris, when I passed through. Brujon and a man are bringing them,” Porthos says, clicking at his horse again and heading off around the house, though he doesn’t know where the stables are. 

 

Aramis leaps down the steps and falls in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and they take a meandering way across the great forecourt and down the side of the house, under the arches and through to the inner courtyard, across that and down the cut through to the stable-yard. There are two stable boys and one older hand, one of the boys runs off when he sees Porthos coming. The older hand comes over and bows solemnly. 

 

“We hadn’t expected you, my lord,” he says. 

 

“This is Aimé,” Aramis says. “Aimé, this is the Baron Porthos Vallon de Barcieux de Pierrefonds, General of France, of the court of Miracles.”

 

“Porthos will do,” Porthos says. “This is Mercredi, look after her. She served in the army, she’s a soldier.”

 

“Yes sir,” Aimé says. 

 

The stable boy is gazing at Porthos open-mouthed and his companion sidles back and joins him, both gaping and awed. Aramis wracks his brains for their names. 

 

“Introduce me to the staff, Aimé,” Porthos says, winking at Aramis as if he just knows Aramis has forgotten. 

 

“This is Jean-Paul and Matthew,” Aramis says, raising his eyebrows, and Porthos laughs before taking each of the boys’ hands in grave introduction. He tells them about Mercredi and they nod along. 

 

The head of the stables comes out, fetched by the stable boy who ran off, and Porthos discusses horses with him for a while. Aramis has seen to it that the stables are not empty and that things are well-run but he doesn’t say anything, leaving Porthos to ask his questions and be shown around, trailing along behind him still bare-foot and half-dressed. The servants here must be used to him by now, he’s been here a week. When he’s seen the stables Porthos heads inside and uses the servants’ entrance and causes a flap in the kitchens by accident. He comes out looking pleased, sticky, a sweet pastry in one hand, an apricot in the other, two apples up his sleeve. He’s still half-armoured, his coat is still on, he towers. Aramis follows admiringly behind. 

 

“Where next?” Porthos asks. So the kitchen wasn’t an accident afterall. 

 

“Brujon should have caught up by now. Shall we greet them?” Aramis asks. 

 

Porthos goes out through the back, to where Aramis has been training. He finds Aramis’s stash and takes up a blade, grinning at Aramis and crouching a bit. Aramis might have kept his hand in but Porthos has been on the front and has been a soldier for years and years without a break. Aramis drops his blades, pulls his knives out of his belt, and holds up his arms. Porthos relaxes and laughs and Aramis takes his opening; he drives at Porthos and tackles him. Porthos’s laugh turns into a breathless roar of joy and they fall to the grass in a tangle of limbs and a clatter of Porthos’s armour. Aramis lies on top of Porthos, breathless. 

 

“How unseemly,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yes, how,” Aramis agrees, his lips brushing Porthos’s. “You need a haircut.”

 

It’s braided again, down Porthos’s back. Porthos nods. He’s not soft enough for Aramis’s liking, either. 

 

“You can feed me up,” Porthos says, taking a bite of apple, seemingly content beneath Aramis. Bazin appears, though, interrupting. “Yep?”

 

“Your party has arrived, my lord,” Bazin says, censure and disapproval in every note. 

 

“Make them comfortable,” Porthos says, not moving. 

 

Aramis gets up and goes to give direction, and to get properly dressed. When everyone is stashed away and comfortable, and those who are staying have been introduced to their duties and the household, Aramis goes in search of Porthos. He checks the kitchen, the stables, the gardens, but eventually finds him in Aramis’s rooms, lying naked on the bed, fast asleep. Aramis sits on the edge and takes him in, running his fingers over his great musculature, the new tears and rends in his skin, the new stitches and healing places. He finds bruising from armour, from fights, a gash that hasn’t healed well. He gets his kit and settles in to clean the cut and re-stitch it, Porthos’s easy breathing reassuring him. 

 

“I’m awake, you know,” Porthos murmurs when Aramis is about to stitch him. 

 

“Shall I rectify that?” Aramis asks, grinning. 

 

“My men did not know to knock me unconscious when they stitched me. Thankfully,” Porthos grumbles. “I have learnt.”

 

Aramis strokes Porthos’s side, sadness making him gentler than he ought to be. Porthos never liked the needles, never liked to hold still and allow people that close, allow that trust. Aramis and Athos never really found out what happened to Porthos to make his response to stitching so visceral, they had just accepted it and found ways around it. The yells and shaking terror, the trembling nightmares that always followed; knocking Porthos out had seemed an acceptable pay off to avoid that. 

 

“Would you rather I left this?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Let me bleed on your sheets?” Porthos says, laughing, and sits up to wrap a hand around the back of Aramis’s neck, pulling him close. “Go on, sir, like a seamstress.”

 

Aramis puts each stitch in carefully, gentling the movement of his hand, soothing Porthos lightly as he goes, idly telling him about living here the past week. Porthos listens. The cut is against his back, on the right side, and Porthos rests against Aramis easily as Aramis sews him back together. 

 

“You really do need feeding,” Aramis murmurs, when he’s done, running a hand over Porthos’s back, feeling muscle and ribs and backbone. 

 

“I was a good general,” Porthos says, comfortably. “I shared my food with my men. None of us came home with visible ribs.”

 

“Yes,” Aramis agrees readily. “And now?”

 

“These lands are replete with game. Now I shall hunt,” Porthos says, squirming with excitement in Aramis’s arms. “And grow everything on my land and have great harvests, and have so much food. I can send it to Paris when taxed by my king, and send it to Paris and her refugees and hurting soldiers when I have left over. We will all be rich and happy and fat.”

 

“That sounds wonderful,” Aramis says. 

 

It doesn’t take Porthos long to live up to that. He is a good lord, he runs his lands well and knows how to delegate, how to get the expertise he needs out of people, how to get the best work out of them. He also knows how to eat. He and Aramis play in the gardens, work in the house, ride across their lands to check on things, and Porthos grows soft and big. By the time Elodie and Marie-Cessette arrive Porthos is expansive, rolling; happy. 

 

“My land, my family,” Porthos tells Aramis later, late, sitting in the quiet by the fire, Elodie and Marie gone to bed. “Aramis.”

 

“Mm?” Aramis murmurs, sleepy and content. 

 

“No, I am listing the things I have,” Porthos says. “My land, my family, Aramis. I think I will grow old here, will you stay and grow old with me?”

 

“Yes,” Aramis says, not hesitating a moment. “With all my love.”

 

“Already got all your love, you been hiding some of it from me?” Porthos asks, laughing, looking across at Aramis. 

 

He looks old, Aramis thinks. But no, that’s not right. He has grey hair and he’s fat and has let the muscle go a little. He’s no longer steel and bone. He’s not young. But old? Porthos will never look or seem old to Aramis. He is too youthful within, there is too much of him to wither, and he is too much of Aramis’s young days; those golden days at the garrison where the four of them spent their time as young men. Here, too, they will be young. Here, too, they will have golden days. Aramis laughs back at Porthos and they smile at each other. 


End file.
